Bloodstream
by mitthitt
Summary: You lived by the blue blood coursing deep in your veins.
1. Prologue

You hear your name and you are not proud.

Perhaps before you were, once, long ago when you were but a child with nymphets legs and amoretto eyes.

But now, all you want to do is cry.

"Greengrass, Astoria Calliope. You are accused of involvement in the Dark Arts, use of the Cruciatus curse, inhumane actions towards inoffensive individuals, concealment of valuable information, inapt use of Dark Materials and financial aid to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Please stand."

You are everything your parents strive for you to be, everything that they pledge from their children. Or so, you were. You placed charm in the centre of your palm and held to the self-preservation that Salazar himself had given to you upon your first breath. You posed wit, craftiness, articulate aptitude, remorse beauty, wary aloofness, you were the perfect spy. The first time you shut your eyes and tortured the vivacity out of an eleven year old you hardly blink, let alone cry.

The second time its worse but not on your behalf.

On the third, you refer your victim to the hospital wing for two weeks.

But the ghosts never consumed you, nor did you allow them to. Instead you forced yourself to billow out your breath until your eyes were glassy, pride wedged under your lashes. You pursed your lips and when they asked you about humanity, you returned them a laugh.

But you were not evil. Instead, you simply had no choice.

The Carrow's start to adore you, they nickname you their precious prodigy, their little imp. You are Lilith in her finest, your teeth sharpened with dried blood and your heart beating to a non-existent beat.

"We brought you a little gift, dear Astoria." They crackle and you don't even bat an eyelid.

Theodore is no better. He complies to their ill wishes with just enough glitter to deem him glamorous. He joins you sometimes in your little drabble into the dark arts, his wand pointed at the hunched face of some dirty urchin. The both of you tend to strike at the same time, it's far more relentless according to the Carrow's and you only comply because it is your duty.

Soon, you start to obsessively wash your hands.

But the blood does not come off and instead, it runs faster, stronger, deeper, greater until crimson floods the tiles and latches into your eyes. You are Macbeth stuck in the limelight, your eyes gaunt with conscience and the blood never ceases to remain. On an evening after you have taken up supervising a detention, Theo finds you in the girls bathroom, your hands rubbed raw and skin peeling. He takes you and he holds you but you are bitter and acrid and incapable so cry do you not. But you do cling to him, for you are youth in revolt and have done things that no fifteen year old should have ever committed.

The rancorous stench of blood follows you home.

Your parents have been allocated to the Malfoy Manor, your fathers dark mark worn like a heart pinned to his sleeve. You stare at the virulent tattoo until your father lashes at you and tells you to go to your room. Theo later tells you that gawking will only get you killed, as will many other things.

You are of the younger kind who fight at Hogwarts. And you fight for the right reason on the wrong side. You are inept to murder, vulnerable, nothing but a child. But you grit your teeth and you fight none the less. Shrewd, you have always been of the two sisters, canny and cool and facetious and a right terror. And so as you fight on the wrong side for the right reasons, you hardly comprehend the blood that continues to color your hand.

The blood trails you to court.

"State your name, address, date of birth and wand." A member of the Wizengamot barks.

"Greengrass, Astoria Calliope. Greengrass Estate, Aberdeen, Scotland. Febuary 24th 1982. Apple and unicorn tail, 12 inches."

Again, you are not proud.

The judge peers down at you, his beetle eyes holding no warmth.

You are barely sixteen.

"How do you plead?"

Theo once told you to save your own ass if you could. He said nothing more and nothing less. You were fifteen then and the war had barely started. A week later, the Carrow's called you to the dungeon and asked you whether you really were your fathers daughter.

You said you were. Then, they asked for Daphne.

And at the horror pinned to your face with nails that drew royal blue blood, they had found your weakness in less than a second flat. And from then on, you were their marionette, their sticky hands tugging at the strings above your head. And they smirk with satisfaction as you regain yourself and preach that your sister is incapable of performing such curse. She is soft-hearted, a docile creature, nothing but a pretty face.

In reality, Daphne Greengrass is anything but. Yet you lie to save her pretty little ass. You can't stand your sister living with nightmares that plagues her mind constantly like a sort of apocalyptic epidemic.

You tell them that you can take her detentions on top of yours.

You ask yourself whether that's the wrong decision for the right reason, or the right decision for the wrong reason. But you fail to find any suitable answer.

"There are countless witnesses, Ms Greengrass." The judge bellows and you can't help but allow your gaze to harden.

"There are countless witnesses, there are countless complaints. The charges and allegations against my name are true and I will not deny the crimes that I have committed. But such crimes were not obligated for the pure alliance of Him. No, it was never for him. I maimed and tortured those students not because of my underlying faithfulness to him nor due to my attitude on blood supremacy. I did it to save my sister the trouble of having to be here in my place."

Daphne Greengrass sobs in the stands, her misery the only ambiance of the courtroom.

"Did changing sides not gather in your options? We could have awarded you and your sister with full protection against Him. You could have pledged your loyalty elsewhere. Then the both of you would be saved the trouble to be here in the first place."

You just laugh and laugh and laugh.

Your father was the only person who could pick you up without you making a fuss. He bounced you on his lap and held your fist to his heart. He pressed your forehead with daisy kisses and tousled your hair that bled. He called you his little baby and vouched his paternal love to you by risking his own life to associate himself with the wrong side but for the right reason.

You couldn't just let him suffer under you and your sisters decisions.

"My father would have died. As would have my mother. They would pay for our treason." You quip, glaring at the judge to see if he dares.

And he does.

"Atticus Demetrius Greengrass and Charlene Melpomone Greengrass nee' Algernon are already dead." There is no sympathy in his voice. You bite back your retort that reminds him of your age.

"I am aware." You say instead, your eyes travelling to your feet. Your skin is pale, haunted with elegance, a gaunt residue of superiority glints in the light. You still have blue blood, it courses under that ice skin.

"Names of your victims under the Cruciatus curse, Ms Greengrass."

If that is a statement or a question, you have no idea.

He opens his lewd mouth again and you take that it is the former.

"Dibernardo, Rita. Higgs, Ariel. Sloper, Regan. Finnigan, Seamus. Smethwyk, Mateus. Belby, Sienna. Gulch, Justin. Peasegood, Aengus."

You hardly remembered their names.

But you remembered the cause.

"I had no choice." You simply state, examining your nail. Again, you are way over your head. Tread lightly, Theo said in the cell next to you, his dark horse glinting in his eye.

"No choice?"

"I am a Greengrass, Sir." You hold your pureblood grace, ambiguity with a touch of insipidness. Scrupulousness, sincerity, all melted together to form an agile harmony that parts from your lips. "We do as He bids, or we die trying to defy. There is a reason to why the whole of the wizarding world fears Him. How are we any different? He asked us where our loyalties lay and my father responded the only question that wouldn't get him killed… instantly." You drawl these words between your teeth but your voice is willowy, melancholy tainted with the lisp of compliance. "You forget, your _honour_, that we are Slytherin's and we do what me must do, to survive."

.


	2. Shiver

Your mother nearly hexes your father the day you are born.

"She looks like the bastard child of a Weasley. Damn your genes, Damn them to hell and back!" Charlene screeches, her hair damp from labour. Despite her tiredness, she is still an eloquent beauty. Slim cheeks, long neck, she balances crystal eyes upon her porcelain face and brushes that buttered hair several times a day. Charlene Greengrass nee' Algernon compromises the Greengrass reputation with her allure that was both magnetic and electric. She was the amulet that was worn upon a goddess's collar-bone to be admired near and far. She was also, nothing more than a trophy wife.

Atticus Greengrass was a Scotsman of epic wealth. As a Wizengamot member, he held his families riches upon his shoulder. And he, like your mother, is also incredibly vain.

So when you come out brandishing your grandmother's auburn frizz from your father's side, your mother nearly drops you onto the floor. From your first breath you are more or less, a liability.

Daphne is puerile lips and cobalt eyes, flushed cheekbones and lashes the shade of syrup. She holds herself with eminence, a notoriety to her pretty step. She is your sister right from the start when she coos over you at a tender age of two, pressing her pretty little lips upon your not-so-pretty little curls. She loves you from then and there.

You flourish in a cavern of tradition that paints itself upon stone and shadows your gaze with expectations that are written in nothing but gold. Potential, prospects, probabilities, they weigh out your life like a Libra scale topped with anticipations that are far from rational. You're born with a silver spoon wedged between your teeth and a crystal goblet at your feet, chandeliers with their prisms of glass jubilant above your head like a frosted halo. You roll around in Egyptian cotton and dress in Chinese silk, Turkish roses strung through that damned hair.

"We need to raise her just like we raised Daph. Two darling, darling girls." Charlene burbles, fixing her cranberry lips.

"I wouldn't mind a smart girl for once." Atticus quips, pressing a kiss to his eldests forehead in jest.

Your fathers wish is your command.

* * *

When you arrive at the trains station bright eyed and beaming, your sister takes you aside and tells you that you can't sit with her. It's the first time that she's been hostile towards you. No, hostility is not the word. Daphne is rarely hostile and definitely not to her sister. It's harsh sure, and detached but Daphne is simply exasperated. At eleven you do not comprehend her wishes, wondering why she can be so mean on your first day. But you comply. You do not cross your sister.

(For she is your sister and nothing else. You do as she tells you to simply because you have never known anything otherwise.)

Mediocre conversation lapses in a compartment of around five to six fellow first years. Names are exchanged, interests, hobbies, preferences, knowledge- it spirals up and down the crammed seating space until you can't differentiate one genial face to another. Father has always called you established for your age, your mind ripened and mature with a mellow centre. Advanced in both academics and social order, you have no time for rudimentary eleven year olds discussing their favourite quidditch player of the season.

And so despite Daphne's wish, you seek her out.

Her cabin is towards the end of the train and your feet ache from the journey. Who would have known that the Hogwarts Express was so long? Definitely not you. Your flaming hair hides your colourless eyes, supressing the guilt of defying your older sister. But at eleven, you see no harm. Father may have called you mature, but he emphasizes on the age bit.

You slide open the compartment door, your pixie face peering at the third year Slytherin's. You notice Daphne wedged between two boys and she catches you hovering at the entrance and sighs.

"Tori, what are you [i]doing[/i] here?" She employs, ushering you into the compartment. "And close the door." You comply (you always comply.)

Fidgeting with your red plait, you glance around. There is Pansy Parkinson and Tracey Davies, two girls who Daphne invites over to the estate often however whenever they visit, you seclude yourself to the library. Pansy is bold and beautiful, sharpened eyes and a razor-cut bob, her lips pursed and nose regally slanted. Tracey relishes with wavy brown hair, her green eyes of a cat. Complete with your blonde-haired blue-eyed sister, you feel like a potato sack.

"I grew bored of tireless chatter." You offer, although your voice lacks authority. She sighs in return and beckons you to seat yourself by the window before going back and animatedly chatting to a dark-skinned boy, flipping her hair with flamboyance.

You're not the only person who is reading. Across from you, an incredibly tall and incredibly lank boy has his pointed nose burrowed into a thick text book. You glance at the cover. Transfiguration. He senses your inquiring stare and levels his gaze to yours, compromising a wary frown. He says nothing more and you open your own manuscript, charms.

Awaking with a jolt, you have realized that you had fallen asleep. Somebody taps your cheek and you bolt up, only to see Daphne's concerned expression lingering over you. Then you realize that you are in complete darkness. Voices prowl around you, hushed and urgent. "Fucking move your leg, Goyle." Grunts somebody and there are several squeals, most likely from Pansy. Several wands are lit and you can make out the compartment through the dim light, nine frightened faces mooned with anxiety.

And then you feel cold, so, so, so cold. And Daphne feels it too. She envelopes you into a hug and buries her face into the crook of your neck, her cheeks guzzling against your ginger hair. You are two, then four, then six, growing older and older and older and as you age, your mothers frowns intensifies. You see her standing over you, your father by her side. They stare down at you with their hawk-like gaze and then it's there, that phrase. That horrible, horrible phrase.

Why can't you be more like your sister?

But despite it all, you hold Daphne close to you, half wishing that she were dead, half wishing that it was you instead.

And then, the lights flicker on and the train starts to lurch again and Daphne kisses your cheek and you can't even imagine that you hoped for your own sisters misfortune only two seconds ago. You curl up against her for the rest of the way to Hogwarts.

* * *

Tristan Rosier is the one who claps the loudest out of Daphne's friends when you are sorted into Slytherin.

He is also unconditionally, your first love.

(If either of you are capable of love in the first place.)

You met him on the train, a boy between Nott and Zabini, his squarish jaw jutting out like a sore thumb. Throughout the rest of the journey, you notice him argue profusely with Tracey Davies only to irritate her to a point in which she storms out. Your sister being the considerate child she is, rushes after her friend with Pansy in tow. This ultimately, leaves you quite alone. It is only with the absence of all three girls does the rest of the compartment fully comprehend your existence.

"Daphne's never mentioned that she had a sister." Zabini speculates. "Tori, right?"

"Only my sister calls me that." She says, her voice a double-ended sword. She notices Rosier snort and Nott shift uncomfortably.

Zabini lets out a laugh which clearly indicates that he views this as a mediocre joke. Which it is not, evidently. "What in the world have we gotten ourselves into?" Blaise then barks, his dark eyes abundant with mirth.

"Another Greengrass, obviously." You interject, furrowing your brow imploringly.

But the carriage door slides open just in the moment, revealing a slightly pink-faced Tracey Davies and her tutting doves right behind. She frowns at you and then turns to Blaise and Tristan, her glare intensified due to her vixen-like eyes. "What are you smirking at?"

Tristan Rosier looks you square in the eye and ignores Davies. Instead, he surprises you with a smug expression that will evidently haunt your dreams for years to come.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, _Tori_ Greengrass." He drawls and the pleasure is all his.

Within your first week of Hogwarts you take into following Tristan around. Not because you are lost nor desperate but instead, because he insists. You find common ground with him, your wittiness a satirical match to his rationality and resourcefulness. Despite being two years your senior, you realize that he is miserable with Care Of Magical Creatures and despite the fact that you are but an eleven year old not even taking the subject, you take into telling him all your knowledge over magizoology. At one point you even lend him your personal books on the topic and in return you're greeted with that unnerving smile that only Tristan Rosier can muster without being murdered on the spot.

You don't know why Tristan Rosier has decided to seclude you underneath his arm. But you don't mind, either way. He is neither overbearing nor overly arrogant and can put up a good debate. Those from your dormitory are fickle-minded and you find their pointless chats about Sirius Black to be tiresome. Their names are as much as you decide to remember.

There are five of you who share the same round room with the same four-poster beds and the same emerald striped ties. Athena and Ariel Rookwood, Harleen Selwyn take up the beds to your right and Cara Pucey is to your left. They care little for you and you can only return the favour. At first Harleen attemps to strive conversation but you pull the hangers around your bed shut and plug into your Potions textbook, not wishing to linger into any more talks about the escaped prisoner.

By the end of the month, Nott becomes your second friend.

Unlike Tristan, Theodore has a rather beguiled way of thinking. He is both quiet and detached just like you and shares the same adoration towards literature. The best and worst thing that he has ever done to you, was introducing muggle books.

"What is this?" You question, frowning at him.

"Hans Christen Andersen." He says curtly before striding up to his dormitory. And by the end of the evening, Mr Andersen along with Mr and Mr Grimm, are the most celebrated authors in your personal preference.

Daphne isn't pleased with your choice of friends.

"Tori, they're two years older and not to mention boys! How about the Rookwood twins, they're from a lovely family. Why don't you get to know them a bit more? Or Adrien Pucey's younger sister?" You're not sure if you detect jealousy in your sisters voice. But then again, you must be mistaken. It has been, it is and always will be the other way around. Always. And you don't utter any response but instead, you look at your sister with an almost yearning look before stumbling off into the direction of the library where you find Theo and Tristan pouring over some Arithmancy essay.

You slowly slip out of the library before they notice you.

* * *

"Your alliance with Rosier, Tristan Benvolio?"

"He... he was the only person other than my family who I would dedicate my life to."

And in a flash, that self-preservation that you are so notorious for, is gone.

You have never felt so alone.


End file.
